


Animal

by quodpersortem



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Don't read if you're squeamish, Erotophonophilia, Evil Stiles, F/M, Graphic Description, I can't believe I fucking wrote this, It's sick, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, No Sex, Slash, implied major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:17:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quodpersortem/pseuds/quodpersortem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s seven years old when he kills his first victim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Animal

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, first off--read the tags, please. This isn't a story for squeamish people. There are explicit accounts of murders and I don't think that's everyone's cup of tea.
> 
> As for the people who do decide to read it, enjoy!

He’s seven years old when he kills his first victim.

It’s the neighbors’ two year old toddler, a hapless innocent kid with rosy cheeks and soft baby skin. He’s got two teeth in the front of his mouth that show when he laughs, which is all the time.

His neighbor, a kind lady in her early thirties, leaves him alone in the bathroom with the kid in the tub. She has to phone someone, she says.

While he can hear her grow increasingly frustrated in the next room, _he_ takes pleasure in putting his hand over the child’s nose and mouth, longer and longer, watching the responses. It’s a little difficult to reach over the edge of the tub—he isn’t very tall—but he can keep up long enough to turn the kid red, purple, blue.

The baby moves frantically at first, spasming in the water, then he clings weakly to Stiles’ arms, and eventually he stops moving altogether.

Stiles lets go and the body falls back, slack in the water.

Two weeks later, the morgue reports that it’s a little strange that there’s no water in the baby’s lungs, but also that they won’t be investigating this any further. The situation isn’t suspicious enough. The father, who is dealing with a dead child and his wife heavily sedated in a mental institution, moves away from the neighborhood after two months.

All Stiles can really remember afterwards is the red, purple, blue skin and the incredible amount of power he’d felt, the way his limbs shook with newfound energy.

He dreams about it at night.

-

He becomes obsessed.

He asks his dad about the details of deaths in Beacon Hills. Most cases the police investigate are suicides but every now and then, once a year or so, there’s a case they treat more carefully. Stiles counts himself lucky with every bit of information he can gather.

When his dad’s working late at night, Stiles sneaks out of bed to watch the crime scene channel.

Underneath his bed, he keeps a notebook in which he writes down how the police can trace back a killer. Fingerprints. DNA samples from hair. From skin, even. Alibi’s. Footprints. _Anything_ he can find, he records.

After two years, he has a half-filled book.

After four years, he considers it completed. His own personal magnum opus. 

He’s twelve when he starts to look for a new victim, when the thrill of the first isn’t enough to quench his thirst any longer.

-

Lydia Martin is in his year. She’s exactly three months and five days and two hours older than him. Her skin is pale and her hair is red, and Stiles isn’t sure if he likes her the way he should—or _if_ -

He imagines what she’d look like though, with a cut throat and blood splattered everywhere, or bruised wrists and a bruised neck. What it’d be like to dig his fingers into her skin until she turns red, purple, blue. 

He’s thirteen and gasping for air at that image, one hand moving fast on himself and the other pushed into his mouth so his dad won’t hear him scream when he comes.

That’s the first time he wonders if something is wrong with him.

-

He doesn’t kill Lydia. 

Instead he walks into a street at night and waits near a playground. When almost all the kids have gone inside and their parents are serving dinner, he tells a boy he thinks is called Josh that he’ll walk him home.

They walk into the woods instead. Stiles puts on gloves and picks up the kid. He mostly walks across dead leaves so there aren’t footprints left. The kid is wailing so he puts his hand over his mouth.

When he’s as far away in the forest as he can get without exhausting himself, he puts the kid down and gets a knife from his bag. He makes sure the child doesn’t see the blade. Then he sedates the boy with a morphine pill he dissolved in a small bottle of lemonade. While the boy falls asleep, Stiles puts on a long raincoat and kneels.

Josh doesn’t scream when Stiles cuts him up, blood seeping out of the wounds and soaking the little boy’s clothes.

Eventually, he watches as the tiny heart stops beating, as the blood stops pouring. Then he pours petrol all over the little corpse and sets it on fire.

He throws the raincoat and gloves on top of the fire and watches them melt together with the flesh. When the stench gets so heavy he starts retching, he carefully trails back into town and gets into the shower.

There, he thinks about what it’d be like to stab a knife into Lydia’s body.

He’ll be fourteen tomorrow.

-

“Have you heard?” he tells Scott a couple of days later. They’re eating cake left over from his birthday. 

“I don’t know, what?” Scott says around a mouthful of crumbs. Some land on the table, covered in drool.

“They found a kid in the woods,” Stiles says. “Like, it’s crazy man, someone just kidnapped him from the playground and set him on fire.” 

He avoids the details of the corpse, even the ones his dad told him about after much pressing from Stiles. Scott mightn’t be the brightest crayon in the box, but Stiles’d rather be safe than sorry.

Scott just shrugs. “Jack, right? Newthorne?” 

“Yeah, that’s him!” Stiles grins at Scott. “Maybe we should go see where he was killed?” He wants to see how scorched the earth is. If there’s still blood or flesh or defecation left on the leaves. If there are any leaves left at all after the fire.

Scott shrugs again. “Not really, I mean, it’s illegal. Your dad might see us. We might get arrested.”

“We’re minors,” Stiles presses. “They won’t. We’re just two kids who’ve watched the crime channel too often. Dad’ll understand. All of the policemen will. I bet they did the same when they were our age.” 

“So you want to be a policeman, then?” Scott asks and Stiles ignores him because that wasn’t his point at all.

There’s a police line around the crime scene, _do not cross_ , so of course Stiles crosses it. Then there’s a large hand on his chest, pressing him back. The Sheriff tells him, “This isn’t a place for little kids.” 

Stiles resists the urge to spit nasty words at him. Scott just rolls his eyes and tells him, “C’mon Stiles. I told you it was a bad idea.”

-

He doesn’t cry when his mother dies.

It’s not that he’s _happy_ about it, it’s just that—

Stiles and his dad, they now eat pizza almost every night. He doesn’t mind that. He stays up way too late and in return for dad letting him he also does the dishes and the laundry and some of the cleaning, which he doesn’t mind either.

He feels numb. Numb to his father’s grief and to the empty space where his mother should’ve been.

Two weeks later, a couple of days after his fifteenth birthday, he convinces a ten year old girl to come play with him in the woods. He acts as if he fancies her and it’s easy, easy, easy. 

Stiles doesn’t drug her. He just tells her that they should go swimming and then pushes her under. The water is cold and it gives him a cramp in his fingers. He watches her face, red, purple, blue. Her mouth is opening and closing like she’s a fish, until she’s not a fish anymore but dead.

He changes into dry clothes on the river bank. 

By the time his dad’s back from his job, Stiles has put his sodden clothes in with the other laundry and the washing machine is roaring quietly. His hair’s dry and his body warm after the shower he took.

The corpse isn’t found until the week after. He catches a glimpse of one of the pictures. The girl’s face is bloated, ugly and pale blue. His dad then covers it up with a blank piece of paper and gives Stiles a stern look.

-

He’s able to push the thought of killing to the back of his mind, then. He knows that the police doesn’t think it’s done by the same person— _two is a coincidence_ —but he has to be careful. 

He is still benched in lacrosse and Scott is still his best friend when someone else starts to murder people. Just a few, like Stiles. And he can’t help but feel curious about this person—if it’s a person at all but somehow he doesn’t think it’s a mountain lion—he’s curious about his motives, everything.

Because he’s sixteen, his dad, who is now the Sheriff, becomes less and less careful at hiding the pictures with evidence—or at least Stiles thinks that’s the reason. Maybe his dad just likes to be able to talk about this with someone again. He knows his mom and dad would sometimes talk about dad’s cases.

Scott and him are in the woods, trying to find the corpse, when Derek approaches them. Stiles doesn’t recognize him at first, and then he does, and then he realizes Derek is staring at him intently. When Stiles stares back at him, he cocks his head to the side. As if he knows something he shouldn’t know. _Shit._

Derek doesn’t say anything though and Stiles turns around all too willingly. He doesn’t even notice Scott doesn’t follow him until he’s back at his Jeep.

-

Of course he’s jealous of Scott when he tells Stiles he saw half of the body.

-

When he finds out that Scott really _is_ a werewolf, Stiles has a little freak out because this means that Scott’ll be able to tell when—when the urge strikes again.

He also has a difficult time relating to his friend when Scott tells him he doesn’t want to kill anyone. Scott doesn’t say anything about how Stiles’ heart rate picks up but Stiles is sure he can hear it.

“So,” he says eventually. “What are we going to do now?”

-

Stiles becomes a little obsessed with the amazing healing powers of werewolves. 

It doesn’t matter if the bruise, bleed, or have their guts spill out from their stomach. Their skin knits together and the wound doesn’t even leave a scar.

He spends hours staring at Scott, but even longer looking at Derek because he’s so much more frightening and so much more like him, like Stiles. Derek doesn’t seem to mind killing, not as much as Scott does at least, though Derek doesn’t exactly make a habit out of it either—apart from rabbits and the occasional deer, maybe.

Stiles wonders if he’d liked Derek even more if he _had_ regularly killed people.

Somehow, he thinks not. This confuses him.

-

They run, that’s what they end up doing. 

-

Derek keeps looking at Stiles and that’s unsettling—more unsettling than having to wait for the police reports to see if any fingerprint or other evidence was found.

Regardless of the possibility of Derek knowing, he starts to spend time with him. 

Back at home, he fantasizes about hurting Derek, cutting so deep into his skin that his muscles show; his bowels; his heart. The most powerful muscle of all is definitely Stiles’ favorite. He remembers watching Jack’s heart stutter to a stop.

Derek never really seems to notice him, though. Sure, he more or less appreciates it when Stiles keeps him alive and he’s okay with it when Stiles counters him, disagreeing, but other than that he doesn’t ever get a response out of Derek apart from watching him sniff.

That’s another reason why he stops killing for a while. Why he stops plotting.

Besides, there’s enough to keep him busy.

Such as wondering why bruising Derek’s neck seems so much more attractive than bruising Lydia’s. Somehow he doesn’t think it’s only because Derek will probably survive it, or because he’s realized that he doesn’t particularly want Lydia dead because she’s turned out to be quite awesome alive.

-

Oh and eventually Stiles does sees an almost-dead Lydia, after which he almost-kills Peter and then has to act as if he’s shaken up about _that_. He is _shaking_ though, unable to keep his limbs still as adrenaline courses through his veins.

After Derek has slashed Peter’s throat, Scott goes home and so do the Argents, with Kate’s body in the back of their car. Stiles stays behind with Derek, helping him break open the floor so they can hoist Peter into the cavity beneath.

“You’ve done this before,” Derek suddenly says. And it’s okay, it really is, because Stiles has been expecting this question for a while now.

“Yeah,” he admits, shrugging. “Yeah I have.”

Derek nods and turns his eyes to the corpse. “Do you enjoy it? Taking people’s lives?” 

Stiles doesn’t have to answer. He know Derek’ll smell it on him, the excitement, the thrill of it, his inexplicable arousal.

“Do you-“ Derek then says, reaching out an arm to grab Stiles’ shoulder, “Want me to help you? Like I help Scott?” 

Stiles barks out a laugh at that, then, harsh even to his own ears. “Doesn’t work like that,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m not a werewolf. I don’t lose control over myself. Derek.” And he’s not afraid to look straight into Derek’s eyes, even now. “The second and third time? Out here in the forest? Those were deliberate. And even the first time, I think I knew what I was doing. I’m pretty sure I knew.” 

Derek’s nostrils flare at that and then Stiles falls back onto the floor with a thud. He thinks something cracks, too, but he isn’t sure—nothing hurts too much, at least. “What?” 

“You can’t do this,” Derek tells him, “You can—we can help you. The pack can. We heal fast. You can-“

“Take it out on you?” Stiles laughs bitterly. “Yeah, right. You’d let me do that. Cut you up. Saw off your arm, eh?” This is what he’s thought about though, and blood rushes to his crotch.

“You could—the creatures,” Derek squints at him. “Jesus Stiles, are you crazy? You’ve murdered _kids_.” He sighs. “Of course you’re crazy.” Derek shoves a thigh between Stiles’.

“What do you want to do, Derek?” Stiles asks him then. “Turn me in? Tell my dad I’ve killed a bunch of kids? That I’ve always been the killer, not you?” 

Instead, Derek presses a kiss to his lips and he didn’t really expect that—didn’t think about this kind of relationship for a very long time because he was so preoccupied with other things.

“No,” Derek says then, getting up and putting the floorboards back into place. He works silently for a while and Stiles watches him, his legs crossed. A breeze comes in through the open ceiling and he tries to remove the dried blood from underneath his nails by picking at them. Biting. It’s salty, metallic, it’s something he can’t describe. It makes his heart race faster and his cock get harder.

“What is it, then?” Stiles ask him eventually.

Derek sighs, as if it’s a chore to say tell him. “I want to save you.” 

“How?” Stiles ask, a ridiculous calm overcoming him.

“You can be a killer,” Derek whispers, inching closer. “Like us.”

Then his eyes flash red and his fangs grow. Stiles knows that he’s said no to Peter, and knows that Derek probably knows this as well. He also knows there’s no getting away from this, not now. Derek’s hands are on his body, pinning him down.

Then there is that moment Derek sinks his teeth into his skin, rupturing skin and ligaments and maybe puncturing organs, too, while a lone thought at the back of his mind goes _too deep, too deep_.

His last thought is, _not everyone survives the bite._

Then he faints, sinking into the void.

**Author's Note:**

> I've decided to add in an end note because quite a few people have asked for a sequel/second chapter by now: I'm sorry, but this is the story as it is. This is all there is, all there will be, and there is no 100% conclusive answer to whether Stiles lives or dies at the end of the day (although I do have my personal headcanon, but I will not share that with you).
> 
> Have a happy day! xx


End file.
